Dave and Barry were sitting at the park bench. The cold Sunday afternoon brought them together at the south side, by the horse carriages.

“So,” Dave asked. “Rockies or Red Sox?”

Barry pondered his answer. “It would be interesting to see Colorado pick up and play, but I think the Red Sox can do it.”

Dave nodded. “It’s like Evander Holyfield in a boxing match with a midget.”

They laughed before they focused their attention on the matter at hand.

“Tell me about that fish Jake caught again,” Dave insisted.

Barry spread out his arms. “It wasn’t a fish,” he said. “It was a monster. A real life barracuda.”

Dave shook his head in disbelief. “This isn’t one of those fish tales, is it?”

“Of course not,” Barry replied. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Harry was at the lake fishing, caught this sucker, and when he brought the beast to shore, a crowd of people were excited. Someone even thought he was Orlando Wilson.”

“Orlando Wilson, the fishing guy?”

Barry nodded. “One and the same.”

Dave thought for a second, then shook his head. “No way he could be Orlando Wilson. He’s dead, I heard about it from Jed at the bait stop.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Barry said. “He became a celebrity in his own little moment with that creature.”

“Too bad about the accident,” Dave said as he was shaking his head.

Barry repied, “Yeah, too bad indeed.”